<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>what is kept must be adulterated by loverism</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464013">what is kept must be adulterated</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverism/pseuds/loverism'>loverism</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Con Artist Enjolras, Con Artists, M/M, eponine and enjolras are reluctant bros, implied past dub con if u think abt the premise at all but nothing explicit!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:42:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverism/pseuds/loverism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras (or Gabriel, or Julien, or Lucien) is a con artist, about to take up his latest job: seduce and eventually rob a Parisian finance manager. </p><p>He's done enough cons to know that getting close to anyone he meets while he's undercover is a bad idea, considering he'll have to vanish from their lives in a year or so.</p><p>Unfortunately, he keeps running into a man called Grantaire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier (mentioned), Enjolras &amp; Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>what is kept must be adulterated</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798430">Poetry by Dead Men</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchofEndor/pseuds/WitchofEndor">WitchofEndor</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was heavily inspired by a marvel fic i read years ago, the plot of which stayed with me. i didn't reread that before i wrote this because i was trying to keep the actual writing as original as possible, but the broad plot outline is directly lifted from that (superior) fic!</p><p>so many thanks to gale for beta reading, love you bb!! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>'Bonjour, Félix,' says the man on the camera. He's handsome. Red hair that, caught in the sunlight, shines copper; cheekbones so sharp they seem to pull against his porcelain skin; blue, blue eyes and full lips set in a cruelly neutral line.</p><p>'Julien,' says Tholomyès, breath hitching as he physically locks his hands around the sides of the laptop screen, fingerprints pushing into the glass.</p><p>Of course, this is a recording. It's a recording he's already watched countless times.</p><p>'You're probably wondering where I am, by now,' Julien continues, eyes narrow and more assertive than Tholomyès recognises. He's horribly dispassionate. '...and where the money in the Cayman account has gone. Unfortunately, neither of us will be returning.'</p><p>'Don't call the police,' he adds warningly, and the first time Tholomyès had listened to this his finger had indeed been inching towards his phone at this point. 'Do not come looking for me. I can assure you that you won't be able to find me. I suppose you don't want the criminal side of your business revealed to the world. I've had a package delivered to you with some photocopies of the evidence I've collected on that, just in case you weren't feeling inclined to follow instructions.'</p><p>Tholomyès feels a bubble of dull rage rise in his chest, at that, although he can almost recite this speech off by heart, by now.</p><p>'I want to make sure you don't believe anyone forced me to do this,' adds Julien. 'No one did, and I never loved you. This wasn't personal. If anyone asks, tell them I left you. It's close enough to the truth.'</p><p>Julien smiles, hand already moving over the screen to turn the camera off, and Tholomyès's own fingers clench reflexively down over his laptop, as if to stop him.</p><p>'Remember,' Julien adds, 'remember what will happen if you try to chase me down.'</p><p>The recording clicks to black, and Tholomyès is alone.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras, hair back to his natural blonde, is sitting in a café on the French Riviera. There's an espresso cup curled in his right hand, and his phone sits in his left. Every so often, he glances at the screen, waiting for a text to come through from a contact labelled <em> T </em>.</p><p>He gazes out at the street while he waits. He's right on the seafront, and the air is humid and warm, breeze stirring gently over his skin. Crowds drift along the pedestrianised road overlooking the beach. A small girl drops her ice cream a few paces away from the café, and begins to wail. Enjolras's lips twist.</p><p>His phone vibrates in his hand, and he looks down.</p><p><em> Money all transferred </em> , the message reads. <em> Well done </em>. </p><p>Enjolras smiles, feeling the cumulative stress of nearly two years undercover drain from his shoulders. He stands, impatient with the crowds; with the still-crying child, and with the ice cream stain on the pavement; with the voices of the tourists at the table next to him ('I specifically asked for lemon, not lime. Le-mon.') and walks out of the café, pressing <em> call </em> as he considers the best route to the train station.</p><p>He's happy despite everything, happy to have finished a job in that strange light-headed way he always is. Happy, and already itching to read the files for his next mark.</p><p>His handler picks up almost immediately. 'Did everything go okay with the escape?' </p><p>'All fine. I'm heading to the station now. Have you got a new target lined up for me?'</p><p>Thénardier coughs. 'I actually want you back in Paris.'</p><p>Enjolras blinks, his stride slowing. 'I don't want a - break.'</p><p>'Oh, no, I do have a job lined up for you. This one's just in Paris.'</p><p>'A little close to home, isn't it?'</p><p>'Yes,' Thénardier concedes. 'But it's an opportunity we can't pass up. Besides, it isn't like you don't come back here between jobs. You can't seriously be scared of returning to the city.'</p><p>Enjolras considers. The way Thénardier puts it, his reluctance to take a job in Paris does seem irrational. Besides, it's been seven years. </p><p>'There's a train leaving from Nice at 3:45,' Thénardier adds helpfully, and Enjolras relinquishes his lip from between his teeth to smile. </p><p>'I'll be there soon.'</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras takes four days in Paris to prepare the new operation.</p><p>Most of that is spent in a flat Thénardier owns. It's the closest thing Enjolras has to a permanent residence, but it technically still belongs to Thénardier, because really Enjolras himself is just as much of a ghost person as any of the characters he creates.</p><p>'Your name will be Lucien,' one of Thénardier's men tells him, tossing him the file that he's come to deliver. </p><p>The papers inside it corroborate that: LUCIEN DUBOIS, twenty six years old to Enjolras's true twenty three. He's a blonde, apparently, which is a relief because Enjolras doesn't enjoy the upkeep required when he goes artificially darker. Golden roots tend to be noticeable. </p><p>Lucien is a dreamer, a man who grew up with little in the way of money, but enrolled in community college and worked hard for a degree. He's fashionable, extroverted; gay, which is a relief, because Enjolras doesn't know much about himself but he knows that he isn't into women, which makes those jobs much harder.</p><p>Lucien is going to be applying for a job as personal assistant to a man who heads up the finance division of one of France's largest retailers: Georges du Theil. He’s single, has a history of dating his subordinates, and, crucially, is very, very wealthy.</p><p> Enjolras spends two days shopping around the other side of Paris for clothes with this in mind: narrow-cut suits all in black, with white shirts - and some red, to add a little interest. Lucien styles his hair with soft wax, and wears skinny jeans and fashionable jackets and turtlenecks in bold colours when he isn't working, along with just a hint of eyeliner.</p><p>When he's finally read all the files three times and recited facts about himself to the empty walls to send himself to sleep, Lucien packs up Thénardier's flat, and his bags, and takes a ferry out to the Rive Droite.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Lucien, Enjolras decides, is going to be a coffee drinker. Almost all of Enjolras's covers have been, because he himself finds it nearly impossible to function without it. But Lucien's apartment, while neatly stocked by Thénardier's men with just enough furniture and personal items to  appear like a genuine human home, does not contain a coffee machine.</p><p>The first morning Enjolras spends there, two days before he is due to go for his job interview, he discovers this. Groaning, he pulls on a pair of Lucien's jeans (black, skinny) and a shirt (bright, white and very tight) underneath a pale denim jacket, and scrunches some product through his hair before heading out of his apartment door.</p><p>He's in a fashionable area of Paris, choked with tourists at this time of year. It feels strange to be back in the city after so long: tense, and more than a little uncomfortable. He hasn't enjoyed being here since the first time he left it, years ago, for a better life.</p><p>He walks past two Starbucks stores, and three Costas, before he finally finds an artisan coffee shop that looks relatively uncrowded, with a fading wooden sign hanging off the door frame that reads <em> Le Café Musain </em>. A bell peals somewhere behind the counter as he pushes the door open, glancing around: the building is old, upholstered with thick wooden panelling, and despite the warm morning light hanging thickly over most of the interior, it's relatively cool. There are a few families and loners with laptops ensconced around various tables, but there's only one man queuing at the till. Actually, on closer inspection, he isn't queuing at all, but leaning in to chat with the barista, laughing with her like they're friends.</p><p>He spins as Enjolras approaches. A curly mop of black hair; warm dark eyes; strong jawline; large, slightly crooked nose. Enjolras catalogues his features without considering it, before remembering, <em> he's not in your target's circle. You don't need to vet him </em>.</p><p>'Holy shit,' says the man, voice low and pleasant, and his eyes flash wide and then narrow again, so quickly Enjolras isn't sure if he's imagining the movement. 'Musichetta, am I hallucinating or has a literal angel just walked into your café?'</p><p>Enjolras doesn't roll his eyes, because Lucien is flattered. Lucien smiles, enchanted, glancing down a little as if embarrassed, which is affected but far easier to manufacture than a blush.</p><p>'Sorry about Grantaire,' says the girl at the bar, shaking her head in amusement. 'What can I get you, honey?'</p><p>'I'd love a cappuccino,' says Enjolras, because he's decided regretfully that Lucien can't handle his coffee black. 'Grantaire, huh?'</p><p>'Call me R,' says Grantaire, smiling, halfway between a smirk and self-deprecation. 'And what can I call you?'</p><p>'Oh, I'm Lucien,' says Enjolras, and offers up his own smile, coy but flattered, and he holds out his card and slides it into the machine. 'Do you work here?'</p><p>'Only when Chetta needs help,' says Grantaire, following him easily as Enjolras heads over to the other side of the counter to wait for the coffee, but staying a respectful distance apart, which Enjolras appreciates. 'Which isn't today, actually. I'm just here to annoy her. Do you come here often? I don't think I've seen you around before.'</p><p>'Oh, I've actually just moved here,' says Lucien guilelessly. 'I'm hoping to get a job across the street, actually. With Georges du Theil?'</p><p>'Wow,' Grantaire says, posture relaxed as he leans his hip a little into the countertop. 'Very corporate. Didn't peg you as the type.'</p><p>Enjolras blinks, surprised. 'Why not?'</p><p>'I don't know, Apollo. You seem-'</p><p>But Enjolras never finds out what he <em> seems </em>, because Musichetta is calling 'Cappuccino!' and sliding it across the countertop towards him.</p><p>'Thank god,' he sighs, and takes a sip, which should probably burn his tongue, but he's built up a tolerance.</p><p>'So you're living around here?' asks Grantaire.</p><p>Enjolras winces internally. He knows he'll never see Grantaire again. 'Yeah, nearby. It was nice to meet you,' he adds, a clear dismissal, pushing his wallet back into his jacket.</p><p>If Grantaire seems a little disappointed when Enjolras leaves the café, well, Lucien isn't looking.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>'So, Lucien,' says Georges du Theil. 'I looked through your application and - you seem to be a very strong candidate. I thought I would conduct this interview personally.'</p><p>As he says <em> personally </em> he leans forwards. Enjolras is half-expecting him to lick his lips, too. This might be the best start he's ever had to a job. He's well aware <em> application </em> is code for <em> the sexy headshot of you blown up on the cover </em>. Still, he hadn't dared to hope that the bait would be taken this easily.</p><p>'Thank you, sir,' he says, fluttering his eyelashes and avoiding du Theil’s gaze again.</p><p>'So I see you've never had direct experience working as a PA before?'</p><p>'No, sir. This would be my first.'</p><p>He's a little surprised he hasn't been given more substantial fake job credentials, but apparently Thénardier knows what he's doing, because du Theil smiles, as he hears that.</p><p>'That's no matter. I'm very committed to helping develop promising talents within the industry.'</p><p>'Thank you, sir,' Enjolras says again, wondering vaguely what <em>promise</em> du Theil has seen in him thus far, and deciding it's probably his ass.</p><p>'But that doesn't mean I won't be expecting work of the highest calibre from you. I am a busy man, and I expect competence, and results.'</p><p>'Oh, of course,' says Enjolras, and he bites his lips.</p><p>Needless to say, he's hired.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Du Theil has had three husbands, all of whom he's separated from via sharp and messy divorces, all initiated by the man himself. He has a documented type: young, pretty, airheaded, two out of three his direct subordinates, and one even a previous PA.</p><p>As Enjolras exits the office after the interview, he decides he won't have to stay in Paris for long after all. This con should prove relatively short: du Theil enjoys a whirlwind romance, so all Enjolras has to do is keep up the ingénue act for a few months, and then he's betting on engagement or even marriage, and with it access to money; the whole ruse could be over in ten months, maybe less.</p><p>Enjolras turns the corner of the Rue Plumet, lost in thought, and crashes directly into someone's more-solid body.</p><p>He reels backwards, briefcase tumbling from his hands, and might even have fallen if not for a hand shooting out to steady him.</p><p>'<em> Fuck </em>, sorry,' says his assailant-turned-saviour. Enjolras, bending down to collect his briefcase, looks up again sharply.</p><p>'Fuck,' repeats the man. 'Lucien?'</p><p>'I - Grantaire,' says Enjolras, scowling. Then he conjures a smile onto his face. Charm. Lucien is charming. And friendly. 'I am <em>so</em> sorry.'</p><p>'Do you attack all your acquaintances upon the second meeting?' asks Grantaire, and Enjolras momentarily thinks he’s serious, but his lips are twitching. 'I guess it's lucky neither of us are holding coffee this time.'</p><p>'Definitely lucky,' Enjolras agrees, relieved that, as Lucien, there's no pressure on him to come up with anything witty to say. Then he notices Grantaire is, in fact, carrying something: there's a small easel cradled in his left arm. 'Are you an - art dealer?'</p><p>Grantaire laughs. 'I'm pretty sure the kind of art that goes through dealers would be too valuable for me to just carry around like this. No, this is mine. I'm an - amateur painter, I guess.'</p><p>'That's amazing,' says Lucien. 'Can I see?'</p><p>Grantaire holds out the canvas for him to inspect, and Enjolras doesn't have to pretend to be impressed: he's <em> good </em>. It's a portrait, done in blues and browns, and Enjolras has never thought of those colours as dramatic before, but this is certainly dramatic.</p><p>'Is it a friend of yours?'</p><p>'Yeah, Eponine. She comes to the café pretty regularly. Maybe I could introduce you, if you were planning on coming back?'</p><p>'It's incredible,' says Enjolras honestly.</p><p>Grantaire smiles wryly. 'It's just a sketch, really. Not much skill involved, but it helps pay bills, occasionally.'</p><p>'Sounds like you're semi-professional, not amateur,' Enjolras comments.</p><p>'What about you? Did you get the job you wanted with - Elon Musk?'</p><p>Lucien rolls his eyes, laughing a little. 'Not quite. Georges du Theil.'</p><p>'Yeah, I remembered really. He has quite the - ah - reputation.'</p><p>Grantaire's eyes flicker down over Enjolras's torso and back up again, and Enjolras can tell exactly what he's thinking.</p><p>It's interesting to glean an outsider's perspective on what du Theil is like. His reputation is not something that Enjolras knows about, beyond what's in his files. It's hard to pick up on these things when you spend seven years in various other corners of the continent.</p><p>'I got the job, ' says Lucien. 'I'm starting tomorrow, actually.'</p><p>'I'm glad,' says Grantaire, in a tone that implies he's anything but.</p><p>'Will you be at the café in the morning?' Enjolras says impulsively, and immediately bites his own tongue. He's meant to be discouraging Grantaire from interest in him - of any kind - not making plans to meet him again.</p><p>A wide smile breaks across Grantaire's face, though, and Enjolras finds himself not regretting it at all, despite himself.</p><p>It's probably fine. He's hardly committing to becoming best friends with Grantaire, just going to his friend's café once or twice. He'll be here for months at least, anyway: avoiding all human contact wouldn't seem natural, especially for a socialite like Lucien.</p><p>'I'll see you there,' Grantaire says.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras slides into one of his close-fitted black suits in the morning, hovering over the red shirts but eventually deciding it's less risky to start with the white. The fabric is semi-diaphanous; inappropriate, really, for an office setting, but he knows du Theil won't object.</p><p>He still hasn't bought a coffee machine. He promises himself that he'll rectify that as soon as possible, as he heads out into the city and along the short web of streets that will lead him to the Rue Plumet.</p><p>He arrives at <em>Le Musain</em> around seven, half an hour before his shift is due to start. As he enters, he finds barely anyone already inside: a few harried-looking commuters at the window bars and single tables, ingesting coffee at double speed.</p><p>'Like some kind of tableau, isn't it?' says Grantaire in an undertone, appearing in front of him.</p><p>Lucien starts. 'Grantaire, hi.'</p><p>'I'll get you a coffee,' Grantaire says, looking amused. Enjolras notices he himself is already holding a thermoflask. 'Cappuccino, yeah?'</p><p>'Yes,' says Lucien gratefully, as Enjolras internally sighs. Musichetta waves to him from behind the bar, and he wanders over to her.</p><p>'Hi, there. Lucien, right?'</p><p>Lucien nods, smiling. 'Musichetta?'</p><p>She gives him a friendly nod in return. 'Grantaire mentioned you just moved here, I think? How are you finding it?'</p><p>'Oh, it’s fine,' says Lucien. 'Overwhelming, but it's such a gorgeous place.'</p><p>'Damn right,' says someone else's voice, and for a moment it's disembodied before another girl comes into view from behind the counter. She isn't dressed as Musichetta is, to work, but in a ratty cropped shirt, choppy brown hair pulled up into a bun at the nape of her neck. There's heavy smudged eyeliner around her lashes and her lips are visibly chapped, but somehow she pulls it off.</p><p>Enjolras is beginning to actually think as superficially as Lucien would. That's always a good sign.</p><p>'Eponine?' he guesses, and she nods.</p><p>'Yeah, that's me. R mentioned me, then?'</p><p>'Of course I did,' says Grantaire, unhooking the partition and sliding out from behind the counter top with Enjolras's coffee in hand. He's wearing a custom-painted leather jacket, today, all done in reds and whites. 'Ep, Lucien. Apollo, Eponine.'</p><p>'Nice to meet you,' she says neutrally, and her blunt ambivalence makes Enjolras fight down an actual smile. He thinks both he and Lucien could like this girl.</p><p>'How long have you got before you have to start work?' asks Grantaire, passing Enjolras his coffee and lightly touching his arm to guide him towards a low table with two armchairs surrounding it.</p><p>'I start at 7:30,' says Enjolras, glancing up at the clock on the wall above them as he sits.</p><p>Grantaire sighs melodramatically. 'Oh, the perils of an office job.'</p><p>'Wait, so what do you do?' Enjolras asks. 'Beside your art and making unpaid coffees. This is good, by the way.'</p><p>'Thanks. I go part-time at a friend's tattoo shop, actually. I'm looking to pick up more work, so I might start taking actual shifts here.'</p><p>'You have some useful friends,' Enjolras comments.</p><p>'Yeah, that's my only criterion for finding them. <em> Can you get me a job? Great, nice to meet you. </em>'</p><p>'I suppose I fall short, then.'</p><p>'Well, I'm sure we can make an exception for you,' says Grantaire, and winks. There's a smudge of green paint on his temple, and Enjolras feels a rush of something confusingly genuine.</p><p>'Tattoos, huh?' asks Lucien.</p><p>'Yeah. Bahorel's shop is just a few streets north of here. I usually go in Tuesday through Saturday.'</p><p>'Have you done any on yourself?'</p><p>Grantaire grins. 'Only once, when I was blackout drunk, and it's beyond terrible.  Bahorel's done plenty for me, though. And there's one from Soho in London, when I was eighteen.'</p><p>'Show me,' says Enjolras, intrigued.</p><p>Grantaire laughs. 'Considering where they are, I don't think Musichetta would ever forgive me if I scared off all her customers. It'll have to be later, darling.'</p><p>'Oh, so there's a <em> later </em>?' asks Enjolras, amused.</p><p>'Yeah, of course. If I haven't already put you off.' Grantaire leans back in his chair, then pauses. 'Ah, shit. You have three minutes, Apollo. Might want to run.'</p><p>'<em> Fuck,' </em>  says Enjolras, realising he's right. He downs the rest of his cappuccino, which he's drunk surprisingly little of while they've been talking, and then he's hurrying out across the street for his first real day on the job.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Georges du Theil is an unsubtle man.</p><p>Enjolras learns this with no small amount of relief. It makes his job simple; it’s so easy to tell what du Theil likes. Parted lips and intakes of breaths and wide smiles are testament to Lucien's successes.</p><p>Du Theil likes clothing that's more suggestive than revealing; someone who’s primarily physically attractive but can carry a conversation just far enough not to be boring. He likes partners who make him feel young, and Enjolras drops mentions of clubs and catwalks he’s been to recently throughout their conversations.</p><p>Actually doing his job as a PA is also easy. Lucien, like Enjolras, has never done PA work before, so he doesn’t have to feign experience. Besides, it’s hardly that complicated. Enjolras schedules meetings and charms business partners and collects suit after expensive suit from the dry cleaning, and discovers du Theil is basically looking for him to strike a balance between secretary and sex object. That’s fine.</p><p>'Lucien,' du Theil says to him one night, when Lucien is working late, ostensibly curled over a list of meetings that he's trying to fit into du Theil's schedule. 'It's nearly eight o'clock. Have you eaten anything?'</p><p>'I haven't yet, no, sir,' says Lucien, eyes wide. 'I thought I'd just finish organising these before I leave.'</p><p>'And then... what, eat at your apartment?'</p><p>Lucien nods, not shy but a little taken aback. 'I have lots of ready meals. It'll be fine.'</p><p>'Oh, but I can't possibly allow that,' says du Theil. He does look vaguely genuinely concerned, to his credit. 'Leave the meetings for today. I insist. You're already working overtime. We'll go for dinner together, now; I know the perfect place.'</p><p>'Oh,' says Lucien, fluttering his eyelashes sideways. 'That's kind of you, but I'm sure I couldn't... I mean, I don't mind working a bit late, really.'</p><p>'No, I insist,' says du Theil. Enjolras is fairly positive that there's no one, in his personal or professional life, who customarily says no to him these days.</p><p>Lucien gives in fairly happily. 'Thank you so much, sir. But - I don't have a change of clothes.'</p><p>'You look perfect,' says du Theil clearly. Then he takes two strides closer to Enjolras, and extends a hand to his neck, fingers ghosting over his skin to undo the top two buttons of his red shirt. Then he steps around Enjolras and lightly tugs the blazer off his arms and body. (Enjolras tries not to shiver too much as he smiles through it. No matter how many times he does this, he finds it hard to get used to the targets touching him, at first.) 'Well, now you do. Shall we?'</p><p>And Lucien accepts his arm.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Without his suit jacket, it's rather cold outside, which allows du Theil a convenient excuse to slide his arm around Enjolras's shoulder as they walk.</p><p>The restaurant is small, with a missable entrance but an exquisitely lavish interior that makes Enjolras's skin prickle. Du Theil pulls out his chair for him, and he slides down into it as a waiter floats past carrying a plate heaped with some kind of deconstructed vegan dish, none of the components of which Enjolras recognises.</p><p>He slips back into being Lucien: overawed but enchanted by his surroundings, full of youthful greed for more.</p><p>'I'm sure you haven't been here before,' du Theil says, smiling reassuringly, 'so I'll order for the both of us.'</p><p>Enjolras smiles up at him. Lucien likes alcohol and shellfish and dark chocolate. Enjolras - well, actually, he isn't really sure what food Enjolras likes. He'll eat anything he has to. When the waiter brings his entrée, it's a few sorry grains of quinoa, dotted with lemon juice and pomegranate seeds and some kind of cheese he doesn't recognise, under a net of egg. He picks at it, trying to look as if he's paying attention to what du Theil is saying.</p><p>Oh, not du Theil. 'Please call me Georges.'</p><p>'Of course, Georges,' says Lucien breathily.</p><p>'I must say, you've taken to the role expertly.' <em> Oh, thank you, sir - Georges. </em> 'As I knew you would.' <em> You're too kind. I love working for you, really. You've been so welcoming. </em> 'Of course, Lucien. I can't help wondering about your family. Do you have anyone here with you - a brother, a partner?' <em> Oh, no one, Georges. I'm afraid I broke up with a boyfriend about six months ago, and I haven't found someone since. </em></p><p>By the end of the night, Georges is offering to walk Lucien home. Lucien agrees, and they step out into the street after Georges has paid a truly staggering bill to the restaurant owner. Lucien is a lightweight, and they've been drinking, so Enjolras giggles and leans into Georges a bit as they wander along the road, down the opposite side of the street to <em> Le Musain </em>.</p><p>The lights are still on in there, bizarrely. Enjolras can see people moving, and wonders if Grantaire is there, before he quashes the thought.</p><p>'This is where you live?' asks Georges, and Lucien nods, looking a little disappointed that they've arrived.</p><p>'It looks lovely,' Georges murmurs. 'You're lovely.'</p><p>Then he's cupping Enjolras's cheek with his hand, surprisingly careful, and Enjolras leans in and presses his lips to Georges's, swiftly, and then retracts, as if it's entirely an instinctive action and he can't believe what he's done.</p><p>'Oh, I'm so -'</p><p>But then Georges's lips are pressing back against Lucien's, and Lucien allows the kiss for several long seconds before he breaks off, eyes wide.</p><p>‘What is it?’ asks Georges, and Lucien bites his lip artistically.</p><p>‘What are we doing?’</p><p>Georges looks at him like he doesn’t understand what that means at all. Perhaps he doesn’t; for someone so business-savvy, Enjolras has come to think of him as remarkably obtuse.</p><p>‘I mean,’ says Lucien, ‘I like you. I <em> really </em>like you, and I don’t want… I mean, I don’t just want to sleep with you.’</p><p>‘Ah,’ says Georges, hand smoothing his lapel as he eyes Lucien. Enjolras is grateful for the fact he’s stepped back, letting Lucien close things down, for now. ‘You mean you want me to take you out?’</p><p>‘I don’t want this to just last one night,’ says Lucien, wide-eyed. ‘I feel like we really have a connection, somehow. And I loved dinner tonight. I’d love it if we could do more of that, together.’</p><p>He interlaces his fingers between Georges’s, and smiles as sweetly as he can manage. Georges looks at him for a long, tension-filled moment, before clasping his hand more firmly, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Of course, Lucien. I would like that very much.’</p><p>Lucien smiles, and so does Enjolras, he bids Georges goodnight and lets him walk off down the street. Then he ducks inside to wash his mouth out.</p><p>This might even be over in seven months, if he’s lucky.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, Enjolras remembers as he wakes that it's Saturday, and he doesn't have to be at work. That, and it's Saturday and there's something that he's been wanting to do for a while.</p><p>He knows where Bahorel's tattoo shop is: tucked a few streets north of the café, in an area of town where the pavements and roads begin to disappear into one long cobbled maze, and shops occupy the ground floors of tall stone buildings with baskets of flowers on every balcony.</p><p>He shows up there mid-morning, promptly realising he's forgotten about Lucien's hair care regime and that his hair lies in an untamed cloud of curls above his head. It's a shame from the perspective of maintaining his persona: he's getting sloppy. (Grantaire's hair is never styled; a perpetual mess of wiry black curls.)</p><p>The door rattles as Enjolras steps inside. He squints, eyes adjusting to the gloom. He locates Grantaire in the back of the shop, bent over a client’s arm, just as he looks up.</p><p>'Lucien?'</p><p>'I thought I'd come and check in on you,' Enjolras says, coming towards him. 'Besides, this might be a more fitting place than Musichetta's for you to show me your tattoos.'</p><p>Lucien flirts with everyone. Enjolras is just maintaining his cover, as always.</p><p>The client in the chair snorts, and Enjolras blinks down at them - her. It's Eponine, in fact. 'Hi, Lucien. If Grantaire's offered you a striptease, for the love of Christ, get him to do it in the back room, not here. Preferably when I’m long gone.’</p><p>'Noted,' says Lucien smoothly. Eponine cracks a grin.</p><p>'All done, anyway,' Grantaire says. Enjolras looks down at Eponine's arm to see a series of small birds, spiralling in a conical pattern of flight. 'I'm charging you double, asshat.'</p><p>'Fuck you too!' calls Eponine, as she wanders away.</p><p>Grantaire sighs, holding Enjolras's gaze. 'Hey, Apollo.'</p><p>He seems weirdly downbeat. Enjolras frowns. 'Look, if this isn't a good time, I can come back later-'</p><p>'No, no, now is great. Sorry.' Grantaire rubs his neck with his right hand, leaving a small black stain behind. Enjolras's eyes definitely do not linger on it. 'I saw you last night, actually.'</p><p><em> Oh, </em> Enjolras thinks, dully. 'You - did?'</p><p>'Yeah. On the Rue Plumet, with a guy? I was in the café.'</p><p>'It was my boss,' says Enjolras truthfully, and he means it to be reassuring but it makes Grantaire's expression shift from vaguely dejected to legitimately worried. 'He just wanted to take me for dinner, see how I was settling in. It was nothing. Everything's good.'</p><p>With each sentence he speaks, he's digging the hole deeper. <em> Why are you trying to justify yourself to him? </em>asks a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Thénardier. Truth be told, he doesn't have an answer, so he ignores it.</p><p>Grantaire nods. 'Oh, great. That's nice of him.'</p><p>Enjolras swallows. There are no other customers in the shop. Bahorel is perched on the counter, and Enjolras can see in the reflection of the window that he's playing some particularly intense version of Candy Crush. 'Do you want to get coffee?'</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras is really starting to hate cappuccinos. He wonders if Lucien might decide to branch out, one of these days. Maybe he’d try an Americano.</p><p>'I have no clue how you can drink that,' Grantaire says, teasing. 'There's so much <em> froth </em>.'</p><p>'I like it,' says Lucien, as Enjolras tries and fails to come up with a more interesting defence, because, really, there is nothing defensible about this drink. 'What do you put in that flask of yours, anyway?'</p><p>'Straight vodka,' Grantaire says, and winks.</p><p>Enjolras rolls his eyes. 'Bullshit.'</p><p>'Yeah, okay, it's actually green tea. I have to hide it in there so no one knows I'm a hipster.'</p><p>'You work at a tattoo studio and a café and do art in your free time. You’re obviously a hipster.’</p><p>'Fair point,' Grantaire concedes, with a mock shudder. 'I'll just give into it completely, I guess, and buy a scarf.'</p><p>'That sounds atrocious.’</p><p>'You wound me, Apollo. And here I was, about to invite you to meet <em> all </em> my friends at Bahorel's flat tomorrow.'</p><p>'Oh. You, ah... you were?'</p><p>'Yeah. We're having a get-together thing and I guess word has spread, because a lot of them want to meet you.' Grantaire frowns. 'Do you not want to? Oh, god, if you don't want to, it's absolutely -'</p><p>'No, no,' Enjolras interrupts. He thinks he might be smiling. 'Grantaire, I want to.'</p><p>It's a terrible idea, but he does.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>'Right,' says Grantaire. They're standing outside the door of Bahorel's apartment. 'I've told them about you, but might want to brace yourself.'</p><p>Enjolras nods. He doesn't exactly need the advice. In all the years he's been doing this, he's never exactly had <em> friends </em>. His personas are designed for impermanence: three-dimensional enough to hold up for a year or so, but still capable of being neatly folded back down and packed into a suitcase once the accounts have opened up.</p><p>
  <em> Except that time in Spain. And again in London. </em>
</p><p>'I'm sure it will be fine,' says Lucien, and smiles as Grantaire opens the door.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Bahorel lives with Feuilly, a 6'3 builder, with an unremarkable face but the most transfigurative smile Enjolras has ever seen; and Eponine, who waves at him from the sofa as he steps inside, but otherwise makes no attempt to come up to him. He's grateful for that, to be honest, because everything else is overwhelming.</p><p>Bahorel grabs him in a tight bro-hug at the door, pressing a bottle of beer into his hands (Enjolras tries not to flinch, and discards the beer on a side table as soon as he’s able). Feuilly is behind him, greeting Lucien, and behind him, Enjolras sees Musichetta, sitting at the kitchen countertop. She’s laughing widely at someone with lavender hair, who appears to be mixing her a highly complicated drink.</p><p>'That's Jehan,' Grantaire says in an undertone. His gaze as he looks at Enjolras is surprisingly shrewd, like he understands how overwhelming this all must be, and he steers him out of the path of a man with a buzzcut, who walks past carrying a tray of Cokes. None of this is very good, because Lucien is a social butterfly who loves attention. Enjolras tries to segue his expression into something more Lucien-like: rapt, intrigued.</p><p>'R!' calls Lavender Hair - Jehan - as they promptly stab a little cocktail umbrella into the pineapple floating in Musichetta's drink, and come around the side of the kitchen island to hug Grantaire. 'Oh, and is this Lucien? Hello, darling. I’m Jehan - they/them, please.’</p><p>Enjolras nods, and is relieved when Jehan doesn’t make a move towards hugging him, standing back around a metre away.</p><p>'I hope you don't mind me saying, but your bone structure is just beautiful,' Jehan says, smiling. 'You should let R paint you some time. Have you seen his portraits?'</p><p>'I saw one he did of Eponine,' says Enjolras. 'He's very good.'</p><p>'Apollo, you'll make me blush,' drawls Grantaire. 'Okay, so see the guy with the buzzcut who just tripped over the coffee table? That's Bossuet, and next to him on the chaise longue is Joly. He's a medical student, which is pretty fortunate for Bossuet.'</p><p>'I can see why,' says Enjolras.</p><p>Grantaire laughs. 'Stay here a sec. I'll get you a drink.'</p><p>Enjolras, uncharacteristically, stays. The apartment is largely open-plan, it appears, with a conjoined kitchen and living area, and doors off to the end that look to lead to two bedrooms and a bathroom. It's well-furnished, and he sees a heap of papers and miscellaneous junk stuffed down the side of the sofa which would seem to indicate it's just been swept off the coffee table for the purposes of the party. There's a set of shelves behind the television that are filled with books, a few cacti and several small sculptures in dark clay, and as Grantaire comes back to him with a cocktail in hand, he nods his head towards them and asks, 'Yours?'</p><p>'Oh, yeah. I’ve been doing a series. I inflict them on Bahorel a lot, and for some reason he always keeps them. Want to see?'</p><p>The sculptures, up close, seem impossibly detailed: little pinched figurines of heads and torsos with a wide variety of sea life growing out of the skin. 'They're beautiful,' says Enjolras. 'You could make a real living out of your art.'</p><p>Grantaire laughs. 'I wish I could.'</p><p>Behind them, the main door to the apartment is thrown open, and a ten year old boy skids into the room. His brown hair is long, dark and floppy, and there's a stack of pizza boxes balanced in his arms which Enjolras is impressed he manages to avoid dropping.</p><p>'Hey, Gav,' calls Grantaire, grinning. 'Did you steal those, or did you just want to make a dramatic entrance?'</p><p>'Both,' calls the kid. 'Who's that?'</p><p>He jerks his chin towards Enjolras.</p><p>'This is Lucien,' calls Grantaire. 'He's a friend of mine.'</p><p>Enjolras watches the kid process that, evidently deciding that a) Grantaire just doesn't mean <em> friend </em> and that b) he's surprised someone like Lucien has gone for Grantaire. He shoots Grantaire a grudgingly impressed look before dumping the pizzas onto the coffee table.</p><p>'Who's that?' Enjolras asks.</p><p>'Ep's little brother. He lives here, too. It was originally Bahorel and Feuilly's place, but Ep and Gavroche needed somewhere to stay, so now they take up one of the bedrooms.'</p><p>Enjolras nods. He watches as Eponine snatches up a pizza box from the table and tosses the little plastic sauce pot at Gavroche's head, smirking: he dodges easily and grabs it off the floor before hurling it at Feuilly.</p><p>'We should get some before Gav eats all of it,' says Grantaire.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>'So, Lucien,' asks Joly, as they're all sprawled out across the floor and sofas, half-eaten pizzas on their laps. 'You just moved here?'</p><p>'Yeah,' says Lucien, smiling. 'I've been in Nice with my uncle for a few years, but he's gone to England to retire. I thought I'd come back down here and try to get a job.'</p><p>'That's brave,' says Feuilly.</p><p>'It was a big decision, but I'm glad I did it.'</p><p>'Hey, Bossuet, don't you have friends in Nice?' Grantaire asks innocently.</p><p>Bossuet scowls. 'Shut up.'</p><p>Enjolras sees quite a few of the others smirking around the room. 'Floréal,' Grantaire says to him in an undertone. 'She's his ex from college. Took him <em> several </em> years to get over it when she dumped him for a fisherman. They're still living down there together.'</p><p>'Anyway,' says Bossuet loudly. 'Grantaire said you were working in an office somewhere?'</p><p>'As a personal assistant,' says Lucien with a smile. 'It's not that interesting, but it pays bills. I'm just happy to be back in Paris.'</p><p>The party lasts several hours. At some point they progress from cocktails to shots, and Enjolras sits at the bench with a very serious Joly giving him a detailed description of his perilous medical history. Eponine arrives to rescue him, even though Enjolras doesn't really mind, and he talks to her and Gav about Gav's school (<em> boring </em>) and Gav’s extracurricular activities (skateboarding, pickpocketing), and then referees Bahorel and Feuilly doing a series of body shots, before they just start making out, and disappear off into one of the back bedrooms.</p><p>'I think that's maybe our cue to go,' says Grantaire, appearing at Enjolras's side. He's been drinking double the quantity of anyone in the room and still appears relatively sober. 'You ready, Apollo?'</p><p>Enjolras nods, maybe wishing Grantaire wouldn't call him that because it's much easier to remember to be Lucien when people use that name. (It's much easier then to remember to lean a little bit away from Grantaire, too; to not stare into his eyes as he talks; to know that one day, in eight months or ten or twelve, he'll vanish from his life forever like a dead man. Worse than dead: one who never existed in the first place, but still demands to be mourned.)</p><p>'I'm ready,' says Lucien, and Grantaire's fingertips ghost gently over the small of his back to guide him to the door.</p><p>Joly and Jehan are discussing something there, in undertones; they look up as Enjolras and Grantaire pass. Jehan waves goodbye, kissing Enjolras's cheek; Joly, pressed against the wall, looks at him with some emotion strangely like guilt as he leaves.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras and Grantaire don't catch a cab, wandering down the glistening streets towards Enjolras's apartment block.</p><p>'I'll walk you to your door?' Grantaire suggests, because they're standing outside Enjolras’s building, but Enjolras doesn't really want Grantaire to leave yet and he doesn't think Grantaire wants to, either.</p><p>They're outside his actual apartment door, and he's pushing his fingers through his pocket in search of his key.</p><p>And again.</p><p>'Shit,' he mutters, checking his other pocket, and then his jacket, but he can't find the key anywhere.</p><p>'You okay?' asks Grantaire, frowning.</p><p>'Yeah, I just - I just can't find my keys.'</p><p>Shit. Enjolras stares at the apartment door as if willing it to just break open. Of course, if Grantaire wasn't here, he could do just that: break in through the door or the outside window, he's pretty sure, even drunk.</p><p>But Grantaire is here, and that would require way too much thin explanation to accomplish.</p><p>'Maybe you dropped them at the flat?' Grantaire suggests. 'I can call Bahorel and get him to check.'</p><p>Enjolras thinks of the way Bahorel and Feuilly disappeared into their bedroom, and the detritus scattered all around the apartment by the time they'd left, and winces. 'Not tonight.'</p><p>'Yeah, you're probably right,' Grantaire admits. 'What are you going to do, then?'</p><p>'I...' Enjolras pushes a hand through his hair, checks his pocket one last time. He's never been this careless before. 'I guess I'll just - sleep here?'</p><p>'Yeah, don't be a fucking idiot, you're not doing that,' says Grantaire. 'You don't go in on Mondays, right? Come back to mine.'</p><p>Enjolras blinks.</p><p>'Not like that!' Grantaire says, hastily. 'I have a spare bed, and I'm not letting you sleep in a <em> corridor </em>, fuck.'</p><p>This is a very bad idea. Probably the worst idea Enjolras has had, in this night full of very bad ideas.</p><p>But Grantaire is harmless, and so very, very intoxicating, and Enjolras is drunk in more ways than one.</p><p>He agrees.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>There's a pile of clothes waiting on the spare bed for Enjolras when he comes out of the bathroom. Pyjama trousers, top. All in Grantaire's size. He inhales slightly, but they don't really smell of his laundry detergent, which is a little strange.</p><p>Enjolras is a little taller than Grantaire, and thinner, so the trousers are cropped a bit short but everything is oversized.</p><p>Grantaire's lips twitch as he knocks on the door and sees Enjolras. 'Cute.'</p><p>Enjolras feels, incredibly, an actual blush come to his cheeks. <em> You're drunk, </em> he reminds himself, but he's fast-sobering by now.</p><p>'Thanks for everything,' he says, and Grantaire shakes his head.</p><p>'Don't worry about it, Apollo.'</p><p>He lingers by the doorframe and doesn't move to come in any closer, although Enjolras kind of wishes he would.</p><p>'Hey, Apollo,' Grantaire says softly. 'I'm sorry if I was bitchy, yesterday. About you going to dinner with your boss. That's none of my business.'</p><p>'It's fine,' says Enjolras, shaking his head. 'Really.'</p><p>'It's just - du Theil really has a reputation, around here. You probably haven't heard anything, because you've been in Nice-'</p><p>'I've heard,' Enjolras says quickly.</p><p>'Right.' Grantaire regards him for a moment. Enjolras notices his eyes are totally clear. He doesn't think he's ever been beyond tipsy, at any point throughout the night. 'But nothing's - you're okay with everything.'</p><p>'I'm definitely okay with it,' Lucien agrees.</p><p>Grantaire sighs. They both know that doesn't mean <em> he hasn't touched me </em>, which Enjolras knows Grantaire would prefer. But, really, it's ironic, because du Theil hasn't done anything Lucien hasn't been specifically angling for, and he'll be the one left in the lurch when his lover runs off with his money in a year's time.</p><p>'Okay. Just know that - you can tell me anything, Apollo,' says Grantaire.</p><p>Enjolras's heart skips, despite himself. He nods minutely; can’t really bring himself to say anything, because if the lie was vocalised it would be unbearable.</p><p>'Sleep well,' adds Grantaire softly, and closes the door.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras wakes to the sound of bird song.</p><p>It takes him a couple of moments to remember where he is, and why his mouth tastes like a long-abandoned distillery, left to the dust and the bats. He rolls over and checks his phone: it's on six per cent, and there's a message from <em> Georges </em> in the notifications bar. He tries to open it, and the screen immediately goes dead.</p><p>'Fuck,' Enjolras mutters. He goes into the en suite and splashes his face with water, tugging the borrowed top over his head and rubbing his head dry with it before picking up last night's discarded shirt off the floor.</p><p>He can't tell the time, but judging by the light as he pulls the curtains open, he'd guess it's around eight.</p><p>He emerges out into the living area and finds Grantaire sitting at the table with a glass of orange juice, frowning down over a laptop. His hair is even more of a mess than usual, one long lock dangling down over his forehead, and the rings under his eyes are so dark that Enjolras almost worries he hasn’t slept at all.</p><p>He looks up in surprise as Enjolras enters. 'Hey. I thought you'd be asleep for longer. You were pretty out of it last night.'</p><p>'Sorry,' Enjolras says, voice hoarse. He turns his back, going over to the kitchenette in search of a glass for water. This carries the added benefit of him not having to look at Grantaire for a while, which has suddenly become a strangely uncomfortable activity. Now that he’s entirely sober, the reality of him being in Grantaire’s apartment, having stayed the night, in his kitchenette, feels entirely too intense.</p><p>
  <em> What’s wrong with you? </em>
</p><p>'Do you want breakfast?' Grantaire asks.</p><p>'I don't generally eat it,' Enjolras says truthfully. 'I should be getting back to the apartment, seeing if I can sort something about the locks.'</p><p>'Oh shit, don't worry about that. Ep called. Gav found some keys under the table. She assumed they were yours, and she already dropped them by.'</p><p>Grantaire holds up a keyring on his little finger that, upon inspection, is definitely Enjolras's. He sighs in relief, taking them, and vows to be less careless in future.</p><p>'Eponine must get up very early.'</p><p>'Like a bird,' says Grantaire, rolling his eyes. 'But she has a shift down at <em> Le Musain </em> this morning. I'm going to drop in.'</p><p>Enjolras spies his shoes by the front door. 'Thank you so much for letting me stay, but I should be getting back.'</p><p>'Any time,' says Grantaire, voice constricted by some emotion that Enjolras can’t identify, because he isn’t looking at him again. </p><p>Then he’s out of the door.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>The first thing Enjolras does, once he's changed his clothes and showered at his own apartment, is go out and buy a coffee machine. His credit card has been loaded with a relatively generous amount of emergency cash, out of the earnings from his last job, which mostly went direct to the Thénardiers. He'll get paid soon through his job, anyway, and. then soon enough he's planning on not having to pay for things himself at all.</p><p>Back at home with his coffee machine, he sits on a stool and thinks about his connection to Grantaire and his friends.</p><p> </p><p>PROS:</p><p>  - having legitimate friends probably actually improves your cover</p><p>  - they're all unconnected with the target, so very low risk</p><p> </p><p>CONS:</p><p>  - being close to anyone is dangerous</p><p>  - Thénardier would definitely discourage it</p><p>  - it'll be unnecessarily messy when you have to leave</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras considers those lists for a moment, then reluctantly adds <em>I want to keep seeing Grantaire</em> to the PROS column.</p><p>Three points either side. He's kind of fucked.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>'Did you do anything nice this weekend?' asks du Theil, leaning up against Lucien's desk.</p><p>'I saw some friends,' Lucien says, with a flash of a smile. 'We threw a party.'</p><p>'Friends from when you were growing up here? Before you went to Nice?'</p><p>'No, actually. I've just met them since I've been here.'</p><p>'How lovely,' says du Theil. 'What do your friends do?'</p><p>'Well, a few different things. One's a medical student. There's a tattoo artist, and an actual artist.'</p><p>'Are you interested in art, then, Lucien?' Du Theil's hand is laid upon his arm. 'We could go to a gallery together sometime. I'm personally acquainted with many of the biggest curators in the city - even at the Musée d'Orsay.'</p><p>'Oh, that would be wonderful,' gushes Lucien. He's gazing into du Theil's eyes when there's a knock on the door of the office.</p><p>'That will be the men from HSBC,' says Lucien. He quickly smooths out his sleeve and goes to open the door, standing back as the men enter.</p><p>They're both wearing dark gray suits, one with close-cropped dark hair and the other with a lighter sea of brown curls. Enjolras stares at their backs as they approach du Theil's desk, feeling a vague sense of dread sliding down through his oesophagus and curdling in his stomach.</p><p>'Lucien, get us some coffee,' says du Theil, and one of the men turns his head as he sits, gaze landing directly on Enjolras's. He smiles; Enjolras blanches.</p><p>It’s a man he knew a long time ago, when he went by another name; before he scammed that man’s boss out of his money and disappeared, like he’s done so many times now.</p><p>It's Combeferre.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras spends the rest of the morning hiding in the bathroom, trying to formulate a plan. He fires off a text to Thénardier - <em> there’s an issue </em>- and within three minutes his phone is vibrating with an incoming call.</p><p>He double checks the door is locked, and accepts it.</p><p>'Lucien, what's going on?'</p><p>Thénardier always does that: calls him <em>Lucien</em> or <em>Julien</em> or <em>René</em> or whoever he happens to be impersonating. Enjolras knows it’s to help him focus, but right now it only makes him feel more panicky, more unmoored, all his identities converging into one insurmountable mess.</p><p>'Two men have showed up for a meeting with du Theil. Someone I knew from the job I did in England, and another one. I didn’t see his face, but I think I knew him in Granada. They’ve obviously tracked me down, but I don't know what they're here for.'</p><p>'Well, fuck, Lucien, have you not been being cautious? You know how much is hanging on this.'</p><p>'I know,' says Enjolras, biting down onto his lip and drawing blood. He really hates himself at this moment. He doesn't think he's done anything that could have drawn Combeferre - and the man who is possibly Courfeyrac - here to find him, but this situation is definitely making him feel worse about all the caution he hasn’t been exercising of late. 'What should I do?'</p><p>Thénardier exhales. 'Talk to them, and find out what they want. If you get a hint they've brought anyone with them - police, whatever - fold up the operation and fucking run. But we don't know if it's blown yet.'</p><p>'Okay,' says Enjolras, and Thénardier hangs up with no further word. Enjolras supposes he deserves that. Plus, there's no sense protracting a call longer than they have to, with people from his past lurking around.</p><p>He's due to meet Grantaire and Eponine for lunch; he wonders if he can blow them off; decides it's probably impossible. He unlocks the door and steps out into the corridor to run straight into Courfeyrac.</p><p>'Nice to see you too, Pierre,' says Courfeyrac. His curls are slightly askew, like he’s run down here to catch Enjolras, but other than a light beard he’s unchanged from Enjolras’s memory.</p><p>Enjolras regains his footing, reeling. Combeferre is standing to Courfeyrac's left. He, too, looks uncomfortably similar to the man Enjolras had once known. Close-cropped dark hair, warm dark skin, rimless circular glasses.</p><p>Enjolras assesses how far he'd make it if he kneed Courfeyrac in the balls and made a dive past Combeferre, then made a break for it down the hall. He thinks he might be quite successful.</p><p>‘Raphael,’ says Combeferre, holding up his hands. ‘Or Lucien, or whatever you’re calling yourself, now. We aren’t here to hurt you, or turn you in, I swear.’</p><p>‘Then what are you doing here?’ Enjolras gets out. ‘Why are the two of you together? I knew you -’ he looks at Combeferre ‘- in England six years ago, and you-’ he looks at Courfeyrac ‘- in Spain - three years ago, was it?’</p><p>‘Three and a half,’ Courfeyrac says, nodding. ‘I went to the UK for an internship a couple of summers ago. I met Combeferre, and we became friends, and he told me this <em> fascinating </em>story, all about a boy who’d seduced his bitchy employer and vanished with all the money, never to be heard of again.’</p><p>‘So you connected the dots and decided to hunt me down,’ says Enjolras. It makes sense - all except exactly <em> how </em>they’ve succeeded in finding him. He’s never left a trail, and no one, including the DGSI, has ever even come close to tracking him down. He’s a ghost, a string of unconnected cases that are rarely even reported. ‘So you could, what, blackmail me?’</p><p>‘No,’ says Courfeyrac. ‘We both <em> cared </em>about you, when we knew you. We still do. I - thought we were friends, Pierre.’</p><p>‘We were friends,’ Enjolras says quietly, and it’s a grim admission. ‘I don’t make that mistake very often.’</p><p>‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ says Combeferre. ‘You don’t like leaving loose ends, do you? And you’re good. You’ve been doing this a long time. I think the job you were on when we met was one of your first, but I know there was at least one that was earlier.’</p><p>‘You were a bitch to track down,’ Courfeyrac adds.</p><p>Enjolras’s mind feels hyperactive, skittish, just he’s just downed several cups of coffee, but with a sense of deep-rooted panic that doesn’t usually cause. If Combeferre and Courfeyrac have tracked him down, how long before someone else - someone with more connections and more consequence - puts the pieces together?</p><p>‘Why are you, here, then?’ he asks again, throat tight.</p><p>‘We wanted to see you,’ Combeferre says sincerely. ‘To check you were doing okay. This job isn’t exactly - we wanted to offer you an out.’</p><p>It’s so ridiculous that a laugh bubbles up out of Enjolras’s throat. ‘To check I’m doing <em> okay? </em>Job done, I’m fine, I don’t want an out, you can go.’</p><p>He checks his watch: five minutes to one, when he’s supposed to be meeting Grantaire. There’s no way he can go there now. Is there any way he can completely cut Grantaire and his friends out of his life for the next year? They know where he works; where he lives.</p><p><em> Just know that you can tell me anything, </em>says Grantaire in his mind, and Enjolras wants to scream.</p><p>‘Well, it’s also more practical than that. We wanted to warn you about something,’ Combeferre adds, frowning. ‘We found out that some people around here aren’t who you think.’</p><p>‘What?’ says Enjolras, blinking. ‘As in, undercover police?’</p><p>‘DGSI,’ says Courfeyrac. ‘Watching you. They know exactly who you are.’</p><p>Enjolras frowns. ‘No, that’s - I vetted everyone in du Theil’s circle, and none of them…’</p><p>‘They aren’t in du Theil’s circle,’ says Combeferre, pushing his glasses back up where they’ve slid down the bridge of his nose a little. ‘I don’t know if they’ve approached you, yet, but they’re basing themselves in a café just down the road from here, acting like a group of friends. They've collected a lot of intel on you. I can give you a list of most of their names-’</p><p>He reaches inside his blazer pocket and pulls out a piece of neatly folded note paper, passing it to Enjolras by his fingertips. Enjolras takes it, fingers shaking despite himself, slow to unfold the creases.</p><p>He scans down the little column of names quickly, all in black ink and Combeferre’s precise, uniform script. It reads like some kind of horrible cosmic joke: Adam Feuilly, Alexandre Joly, Bossuet Laigle… his eyes skip down to the penultimate name: Jean Grantaire.</p><p>‘Raphael?’ asks Combeferre, looking unbearably concerned.</p><p>‘I have to go,’ says Enjolras, his voice surprisingly level, and he kicks Courfeyrac in the balls, and sprints past Combeferre, down the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Returning to his apartment is out of the question: he throws the keys down into a gutter as he exits du Theil’s building, head snapping from left to right. Down the street, can he make out the wooden <em> Musain </em>sign blowing in the breeze, and he grits his teeth and goes left, relieved he carries a change of clothes with him wherever he goes; he stuffs his blazer into a bin and yanks a hoodie from his briefcase over his head, disguised by the crush of a crowd; he ducks down the first side-street he comes across and dodges behind a dumpster to slip into sweatpants and trainers, tossing his trousers and Italian leather shoes into the dumpster as he leaves, along with the briefcase.</p><p>He sends through a quick text to Thénardier, informing him the operation has been blown, before he drops his phone to the ground and grinds it with his heel until he’s satisfied its mechanics have been thoroughly destroyed. He kicks its remnants behind the dumpster, too, then hurriedly exits the alley, shoving his wallet full of cash into his pocket and drawing his hoodie over his head. </p><p>He rejoins the crowds flowing East towards the Gare du Nord. He runs into a drugstore to pick up some crucial supplies, then books a ticket onto the first fast train out of the city he can find, and only just manages to jump through its doors before the whistle is blown.</p><p>He walks the length of the train just to be sure there’s no one there that he recognises. Once he reaches the last carriage, he ducks into the toilet. It’s not an ideal place to conduct a dye, even a temporary one, but it will have to do: his hair is too recognisable to leave blond.</p><p>The train gets into Chartres an hour and a half later, by which time Enjolras is stepping onto the platform as a brunette. He catches a taxi to a nearby shopping centre and purchases brown contacts and a fresh set of clothes - dark blue overcoat, plain white top, jeans. He finds a homeless man at the entrance to the mall and pays him to take the hoodie and sweatpants, then jogs down the road to a bus station and catches one South out of town.</p><p>By the time night is falling, Enjolras has been through seven different towns, three different train stations, five buses and two more outfit changes, including a turn as a British tourist. The sky is turning dusky blue and he’s stranded in a motel in a shitty little motorists’ village, but he’s pretty sure that if anyone is pursuing him, he’s lost them.</p><p>The motel receptionist gets up to use the bathroom, and Enjolras slides behind her desk, picking up the reception phone and dialling for Thénardier.</p><p>He answers almost instantly. ‘What’s going on? Where are you?’</p><p>‘The people who traced me told me there were DGSI hanging around the job,’ Enjolras says, wincing at his own words. God, he’s been so fucking <em> stupid. </em>Rule number one of the con: don’t trust anyone. ‘I had to get out. I’m in a motel-’ He rattles off the address.</p><p>‘Repeat that slower,’ Thénardier says, and Enjolras does. ‘One sec. Okay, I have a location nearby I need you to come to, so we can pick you up. Can you do that for me?’</p><p>‘Of course,’ Enjolras says instantly. </p><p>‘Right,’ says Thénardier, and reads him the coordinates. ‘It’s an old warehouse, out of town. No one will be there. I’ll have my men pick you up and fly you out to Germany. You can lie low for a while at the house there while this dies down.’</p><p>‘Thank you,’ Enjolras says, fervently. ‘I’ll be there.’</p><p>‘Two hours,’ says Thénardier, and the line clicks out.</p><p>Two hours is fine. Enjolras slides the phone back into its holder and slips out of the desk just before the receptionist emerges from the bathroom, then steps into the elevator and goes back up to his room. He’ll be able to walk to Thénardier’s location from here: in the meantime, there isn’t much to do except sit and wait. He resents the fact that it will give any pursuers time to catch up with him, a little, but there’s nothing he can do.</p><p>Fuck, he’s been so stupid<em> .  </em></p><p>Enjolras is definitely never making the mistake of getting close to someone on a job again. If he’s ever able to return to working. Grantaire is the biggest misstep he’s ever taken.</p><p>He wonders if he and his friends have been mocking Enjolras whenever he hasn’t been around, stunned that he’s been so <em> easy </em>to manipulate, that someone in his line of work can be so naive. He feels angry, which barely even makes sense because it’s entirely his own fault this has happened. He’s known all along, deep down, that getting involved with Grantaire was an entirely terrible idea. And it’s not like he can claim any particular kind of moral high ground.</p><p>He thinks about Grantaire, sitting in his apartment in the early morning with his hair mussed by sleep, and his chest physically burns.</p><p>It doesn’t really bear thinking about, so Enjolras sets the alarm clock and falls back onto the lumpy motel bed, and closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>He arrives at Thénardier’s rendezvous point at around ten in the evening. It’s cold, and he’s only wearing a suede jacket, and he pulls it around himself as he climbs over a wooden gate and sets off into the field that separates the warehouse from the road.</p><p>It’s a large building, covered in corrugated iron that’s long been worn down by disuse and lack of maintenance. As he comes closer he realises there are several holes poked through the metal around the doorframe; he pushes cautiously at the right hand door, hanging ajar with a broken padlock dangling from its hinge, and it swings open with a loud, grating screech.</p><p>‘Hello?’ he calls. It’s three minutes past the agreed time, and Thénardier’s men are never late, but he can’t see any signs of movement within the building: just long rows of wooden boxes, contents concealed under layers of dust sheets and gloom.</p><p>Then he sees a man rounding the corner of the northernmost aisle to approach him, footsteps muted against the dirt-choked floorboards. He’s dressed all in black, earpiece and gun clearly visible. ‘Enjolras?’ he calls.</p><p>Enjolras nods, moving towards him. He recognises him, he realises: Claquesous, one of Thénardier’s most trusted lieutenants, no less. Enjolras hasn’t seen him in five, maybe six, years, but he’s hardly changed. </p><p>They’re converging: ten metres away, then five, then three. Enjolras hopes Claquesous has brought a fake ID for him. The sooner he can leave the country, the better.</p><p>Then Claquesous stops dead and pulls the gun from his holster, raising it to point between Enjolras’s eyes in one smooth motion. ‘Don’t move. This will be quick.’</p><p>Enjolras freezes, eyes opening wide. ‘What-’</p><p>‘Look, it’s nothing personal. You fucked up. You’ve got the DGSI on your trail, you said so yourself. I’m sorry, but we can’t have anything leading back to Thénardier.’</p><p>‘So you’re going to shoot me? Does Thénardier <em> know </em>about this?’ Enjolras manages, disbelieving, unable to look away from the barrel of the gun, pointed unwaveringly at his forehead.</p><p>‘Who sent you to this address, again? He <em> ordered </em>it,’ says Claquesous, almost looking sympathetic. ‘It’s what always happens to his con artists, when luck runs out. You’ve lasted longer than anyone has before, but your usefulness is up. You’ve blown your cover pretty spectacularly. This mess won’t die down any time soon.’</p><p>‘No, I’ll-’ Enjolras falters, a rare occurrence. ‘He can send me to Germany. I’ll hide out for a couple years and start again, they’ll lose interest, it’ll be fine-’</p><p>‘You’re twenty-three, Enjolras. That’s older than anyone else we have, in your line of work You can’t do this job forever. Besides, we’re running out of new places to send you to. Paris was a risk - one that evidently failed. We won’t be able to get anyone new on du Theil for a while, and he was such a perfect candidate to bleed dry.’</p><p>Enjolras grits his teeth, assessing the distance between himself and Claquesous. He’s basically defenseless. They’re close enough that Claquesous’s aim will be precise if he shoots; far away enough that Enjolras can’t lunge for the gun before he does so.</p><p>It’s impressive how quickly everything has gone to shit.</p><p>From the open door, there’s a flash of pale yellow light, and the sound of a car revving, surprisingly close. Enjolras can’t tell if it’s coming from the road, or closer.</p><p>Claquesous frowns, jerking his head towards the door. ‘Someone drive you here?’</p><p>‘No,’ says Enjolras slowly. If it’s not just a random passing car, then it evidently doesn’t belong to Claquesous. He looks infuriated, tilting his chin to speak into a mouthpiece clipped to his collar. ‘Babet, get in here. Someone else has arrived, possibly police. We need to finish this and leave.’</p><p>Enjolras whips a dust sheet off the box next to him and hurls it at Claquesous. He’s not expecting it to be particularly effective as far as distractions go, but it hits him and sends a cloud of dust swirling over his face, in a miniature maelstrom. He coughs, dropping the gun and clawing at his eyes, and Enjolras turns on his heel and runs out of the door, breaking into a sprint that’s low and parallel to the long line of the building. </p><p>There’s a Range Rover parked just inside the field, twenty metres away, but Enjolras can’t see anyone out on the road. If he can just get to the road, he might have a chance to escape. </p><p>He ducks his head and moves faster. Over his shoulder, he hears shouts and gunfire, and hopes whoever’s arrived - DGSI, presumably - are engaging Claquesous and his friends, and forgetting all about him.</p><p>He rounds the corner of the building and skids to a halt.</p><p>Grantaire is standing in the shadow of the warehouse wall, clad in a black uniform that couldn’t be further removed from the paint-stained jackets Enjolras has grown used to seeing him in. </p><p>His mouth opens as he sees Enjolras, and seems to catch there. He doesn’t reach for his gun, but says quietly, ‘Please don’t move.’</p><p>‘Fuck you,’ Enjolras spits with all the force he can muster - quite a lot - and turns to take off running directly towards the road. First Claquesous, now Grantaire, and he's so fucking stupid and the blood is rushing through his head still faster than his legs can move.</p><p>Out of nowhere, suddenly, he sees Eponine’s face, scowling in the darkness, and then something slams into his neck and the darkness is all that remains.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>When Enjolras wakes, it’s to a world that’s white and horribly bright, comprised of large ugly tiling edged by fluorescent beams. He narrows his eyes so far they nearly shut again and sits up.</p><p>‘Oh, you’re awake.’</p><p>He turns sharply to see Eponine, sitting in a chair next to his - hospital bed. She’s reading a book: <em> Les Liaisons Dangereuses, </em>which she slides a bookmark into with a sigh.</p><p>‘Where are we?’</p><p>‘Back in Paris.’</p><p>Enjolras notices that his right hand has been cuffed to the bed frame, and that there’s a drip embedded in his arm, and scowls. ‘Why am I attached to an IV?’</p><p>‘Because you were extremely dehydrated and malnourished, not to mention exhausted.’</p><p>
  <em> Yes, well, it’s hard to stay hydrated when you’re attempting to flee from the national intelligence services. </em>
</p><p>Enjolras settles back against the pillow, but remains sitting entirely upright. He presses his lips together.</p><p>‘I thought you’d have more questions,’ comments Eponine.</p><p>‘I know everything I need to.’</p><p>‘Meaning, you’re pissed at us?’ she shifts, leaning in towards him. ‘Fair enough. I wasn’t, when they brought me in. I was relieved. I couldn’t wait to be done with my father.’</p><p>Enjolras blinks. ‘Your father?’</p><p>‘Yeah. My full name is Eponine Thénardier.’ She gives him a long, slow smile, like she knows exactly what reaction he’s having to that. ‘I was in the same job as you. Not as <em> talented, </em> though. I tapped out at twenty. R helped get me away from it.’</p><p>Enjolras feels like he’s looking at her for the first time. Now he’s looking for similarities (although he hasn’t seen Thénardier in person for years) he can see where she resembles her father: the curl of her lip, the precise shade of her hair.</p><p>‘You’ll notice he isn’t sitting by your sickbed. Grantaire, I mean. He wasn’t allowed.’</p><p>‘Wasn’t allowed?’ Enjolras asks, although he doesn’t really want to. (He does.)</p><p>‘Yeah. Valjean thought he might be <em> compromised </em>regarding you. Emotionally, you know.’</p><p>‘Grantaire’s a good actor,’ says Enjolras. He knows he sounds bitter. ‘Was it all fake, then? Musichetta must actually own the café. The flat must belong to one of you, too. The décor looks too personal. Is it Feuilly’s? Or just Bahorel’s?’</p><p>‘Just Bahorel’s,’ Eponine agrees. ‘Although Gav does live in the second room, and I drop in to see him a lot.’</p><p>‘Fake, but just real enough to con the con artist. Impressive.’</p><p>‘Well, I came up with most of it,’ Eponine says with a shrug. ‘Don’t feel bad you didn’t notice. Your two friends - Combeferre and Courfeyrac - screwed things up for us by warning you. We thought we lost you when you skipped town. But I’m guessing there was a delay before you could go to the warehouse, or I don’t think we would’ve caught up. You were lucky.’</p><p>‘I was <em> lucky </em>?’ asks Enjolras.</p><p>‘Yeah, idiot. If we didn’t show up, Claquesous and Babet would’ve shot you and dumped your body to kill the trail. They’ve done it before. Several times. When the authorities get too close - well, Thénardier’s hired a lot of people to do your job. They all fuck up eventually, and he doesn’t put them out in a nice field to retire.’</p><p>Enjolras doesn’t really want to comment on that, so he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras gets to shower in the afternoon, and he scrubs furiously at his hair, watching brown dye swirl down the drain. It was only ever temporary, and it’s shitty quality at that, and as he towels his head dry rather brutally, the final vestiges of pigment shift onto the fabric, and he’s back to blonde.</p><p>When he steps out of the bathroom, Eponine has been replaced on guard duty by Jehan, who holds up the handcuff that’s still attached to the bed and says, ‘I think we’ll just leave this off. I think you probably know how to get out of it, anyway.’</p><p>Enjolras does.</p><p>‘I’m sorry we lied to you,’ says Jehan, sounding genuinely apologetic. Enjolras almost feels bad for them. ‘I know you don’t want to hear any excuses, right now. But we really were very concerned that you were going to be killed. We all like you.’</p><p>That’s enough to make Enjolras laugh. He’s not particularly sure why. There could be a lot of reasons, really: it’s a sentiment that’s just dripping in irony.</p><p>‘I’ve never seen Grantaire more miserable,’ Jehan says gently.</p><p>‘He must be new to emotional manipulation.’</p><p>Jehan looks upset, at that, which Enjolras will maybe regret in a few hours. They sit in silence for around an hour before a blonde girl sticks her head in through the door and says, ‘Papa’s ready for you.’</p><p>‘Thanks, Cosette,’ says Jehan, and looks at Enjolras, opening their mouth.</p><p>‘Interrogation time?’ Enjolras says, cutting them off. ‘Fine, I’m ready. Let’s go.’</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>His interrogator is a middle-aged man, with black hair greying around his temples, ridiculously muscular arms, and a kindly smile that Enjolras is absolutely impervious to.</p><p>‘It’s good to meet you, at last. I’m Jean Valjean.’</p><p>They’re in a small room, clearly purpose-built, with mirrored glass all along the wall at Valjean’s back and a table between the two of them. Enjolras is handcuffed again. He wonders if they’re in a DGSI facility with hospital rooms, or a hospital with interrogation rooms. The latter would be easier to break out of.</p><p>‘We’ve been interested in your case for quite some time,’ Valjean says. ‘We’ve been aware of the Thénardier cons ever since Eponine came to us eight years ago. There are never many agents working simultaneously. We’ve come close to finding them before, on multiple occasions, but we’ve always arrived to find their bodies. We were rather afraid that would be the case again with you.’</p><p>Enjolras stares at the section of mirror beyond Valjean’s ear, roughly where he imagines someone’s face would be, if they were on an observation deck. ‘Are you recording this?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ says Valjean simply. ‘I am sorry that we had to spy on you. I know it constituted a serious breach of your trust.’</p><p>‘I’m not a hypocrite,’ says Enjolras. ‘You played me at my own game. It’s fine.’ (And it’s true. He doesn’t know why he feels so bitter about it.)</p><p>‘I suppose,’ says Valjean, scribbling something on a form and dropping his pen. ‘I am very glad to have you with us today. The alternatives would not have been pleasant.’</p><p>Enjolras’s lips curl into a tight smile. ‘You think I’d be dead.’</p><p>‘I am quite certain you would be. You’ve been rather extraordinarily successful - more so than any of the other agents we’ve come across. When was your first con?’</p><p>Enjolras frowns. ‘I know how this works. What are you offering me, if I give you information?’</p><p>‘That depends on what you tell us,’ Valjean says wryly. ‘But, considering the circumstances - you’ve committed quite serious crimes. You’d normally be looking at a long jail sentence by this stage, but I happen to be aware you were at least seventeen the first time you were sent out to do this: probably younger. The arguments on your behalf centering around underage prostitution and child trafficking are quite strong. We can certainly knock some years off your sentence, possibly have it removed altogether. If you cooperate.’</p><p>Enjolras sighs through his nose, then says slowly, ‘I was sixteen.’</p><p>‘Ah.’ Valjean sits back a little, regarding him. ‘And where was that, exactly?’</p><p>‘It was in Montreal. I - wanted to get as far away from Paris as possible.’</p><p>‘May I ask why?’</p><p>Enjolras sits unmoving for a moment, glancing off to the wall. </p><p>‘I won’t force you to say anything,’ Valjean says gently. ‘But I think it would probably have very favourable bearing upon your case.’</p><p>‘My father,’ says Enjolras. He breaks off for a moment, then looks away and admits, ‘He - hit me. And my mother, but she died, and he spiralled much further. He was high profile, and he couldn’t cope with what the tabloids were saying about her death - he thought it was ruining his career. I hated him, and I had to get out. I met Thénardier then, and he said he had an opportunity for me.’</p><p>‘May I ask what your name was, back then?’</p><p>‘On the first con? Gabriel Levesque.’</p><p>‘Not on the first con. Before that.’ Enjolras gets the strong impression Valjean knows he’s intentionally misinterpreted the question.</p><p>‘...no,’ he says eventually. ‘Sorry.’</p><p>‘Alright. Where did you go after Canada?’</p><p>‘Bath, in England.’ When he met Combeferre. <em> Where is Combeferre, anyway?  </em></p><p>‘And how long did that last for?’</p><p>‘I - around eighteen months, I suppose.’</p><p>‘So you were - eighteen, when it ended?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ Enjolras says. ‘Then Portugal, then Spain. Belgium, two years ago. I did a long job in Nice before I came onto this one.’</p><p>‘Ah, yes. We managed to extract a testimony for that one. The target was a man named Félix Tholomyès, yes?’</p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>Enjolras is surprised to hear that there’s a testimony, and that must be evident in his eyes, because Valjean says, ‘It came out while we were looking into something completely different. He’s under investigation for fraud and malpractice, but I think you knew that.’</p><p>‘Yes,’ Enjolras admits. ‘All the targets were involved in criminal activity, usually white collar. It gave Thénardier something to hold over their heads, so they wouldn’t report anything. Part of my job was collecting the evidence on them.’</p><p>‘Six cons in under eight years. Did you never want to get out?’</p><p>‘No,’ Enjolras says honestly. ‘I-' he breaks off, collecting words together before he can resume. 'I never looked back, I guess. Never regretted it, even. Thénardier promised me I could be no one, and he made me no one. I'm still - I'm grateful to him.' </p><p>'Grateful?' asks Valjean, frowning. </p><p>'He rescued me from my father; I <em> agreed </em> to all of it. That might ruin whatever image you’re painting of me as a victim, but it's true. And he followed through on what he said he’d do, right up until the warehouse. It was fucked up, and I know it was fucked up, but I never-' he breaks off; finds himself gasping slightly hysterically, unsure if it's in a laugh or a cry. 'No matter what happened, I never had to go back to that house again.'</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Valjean's daughter - Cosette - reappears at the door of the interrogation room, to take Enjolras back to the hospital bed. 'I'm sorry,' she says gently, and he realises his eyes are probably swollen with tears both shed and unshed.</p><p>'Were you-' he breaks off, then tries again. 'Were you watching that?' </p><p>'No,' she says, and her lilting voice bears a remarkable similarity of cadence to her father’s. 'I don't work for Papa, really. I'm here for Eponine.' </p><p>'You're together?' asks Enjolras, and she nods. </p><p>'I remember how she was, when she first got away from Thénardier. It was harder for her than she lets on.' </p><p>Eponine herself is waiting back inside the hospital room when they arrive there. Cosette kisses her cheek and leaves them together. Enjolras slides back onto the bed as Eponine waves towards a table that’s been wheeled in, laden with Chinese takeout. </p><p>'I got one of Valjean's minions to send it up.' </p><p>'Aren't you one of his minions?' Enjolras asks, and she snorts. </p><p>'Yeah, but I’m, like, an elite minion. Here, have some rice. You look like you need food.' </p><p>'You’re officially my designated handler, now?' Enjolras asks, as he bites the corner off a spring roll. </p><p>Eponine shrugs. 'I guess. Valjean thought we could therapise each other, or something.' </p><p>'Well, I do need a new job,' says Enjolras, and he's almost startled to hear her laugh. </p><p>They finish the takeout fairly companionably. Enjolras doesn't really want to touch the meat and Eponine hates the vegetables, so it works out well, and she's halfway through her last chicken kebab by the time he speaks again. </p><p>'Is Grantaire really not allowed to see me?' </p><p>'He really isn't,' Eponine confirms. 'But, like you, he isn't that into rules. If he thought you wanted to see him, we could probably get him in here.' </p><p>Enjolras swallows.</p><p>Eponine watches him with her eyebrows raised nearly into her hairline.</p><p>'I want to see him,' Enjolras concedes eventually, feeling his cheeks flushing, and Eponine rolls her eyes to the ceiling.</p><p>'I thought you'd never admit it, fuck. I'll see what I can do.'</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>‘Hey,’ says Grantaire.</p><p>He’s standing in the doorway. He’s changed out of his black uniform into a loose green t-shirt and distressed jeans, and Enjolras thinks that if their surroundings were blurred out they could almost be sitting in the café, again, or in Grantaire’s apartment in the early morning.</p><p>Their surroundings are almost violently present, however, all bright white lines and wide tiles and sanitised, gleaming surfaces. Enjolras decides he dislikes hospitals.</p><p>‘Hello,’ he says, as Grantaire pulls the door shut behind him. ‘Eponine said you’d been banned from seeing me.’</p><p>‘Yes, well. I’m still not supposed to be in here. Valjean thinks I’m emotionally compromised in regards to a dangerous criminal suspect.’</p><p>‘Are you?’ Enjolras asks, not bothering to wonder if it sounds careless or desperate or cruel.</p><p>‘I suppose,’ says Grantaire, and Enjolras can see the muscle jumping in his jaw as his face stays studiously neutral. He comes further into the room and takes up Eponine’s seat next to the bed.</p><p>‘Don’t apologise,’ says Enjolras. ‘For anything.’</p><p>Grantaire looks a little curious, at that. ‘Okay. Ask me a question, then.’</p><p>Enjolras doesn’t ask how Grantaire knows that he wants to. ‘Did you have my keys the whole time I lost them?’</p><p>‘No. Gavroche took them at the party. It’s one of his biggest talents, which is kind of disconcerting. I was at the flat with you the whole night.’</p><p>‘So Eponine searched my apartment?’</p><p>‘Her and Joly, yes.’</p><p>Enjolras nods. There hadn’t been anything of value in the apartment, excepting his case files.</p><p>‘Was everyone in on it?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ Grantaire says simply. ‘We weren’t expecting you to just walk into the <em> Musain, </em>but Chetta and I both knew who we were when we saw you.’</p><p>That figures. ‘Were the paintings and sculptures really yours?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ says Grantaire again, and it’s the first question that he’s looked a little offended by. ‘I really do work part time as an artist, and in Bahorel’s shop. Except the reason I don’t do it full time is mainly, well, I don’t have the time, for obvious reasons.’</p><p>‘Okay. One last question: what happened to Combeferre and Courfeyrac?’</p><p>‘We realised someone had tipped you off about us, and went to find you. Feuilly and Joly stayed behind in Paris, and asked the people in your office about who you’d seen. Someone pointed us to them. They had to stay in custody for a couple of hours, but they’re fine, I promise.’</p><p>Enjolras nods. He’d close his eyes, but despite himself he can’t quite bring himself to look away from Grantaire. Grantaire’s face remains studiously blank, but he gives himself away with tiny tics: the curl of his fingers over the arm of his chair; the tightness of his jaw.</p><p>‘I tried to forget about them,’ Enjolras says, after a pause. ‘I managed, mostly.’</p><p>And there’s another crack: Grantaire’s eyes are suddenly curiously reflective, harsh fluorescence catching and bending over his irises. ‘So you would have done that to me? Vanished without a trace?’</p><p>‘I don’t know,’ Enjolras admits. ‘Probably. It would have been hard.’</p><p>Grantaire nods. Enjolras isn’t quite sure which of them has leaned closer, but it’s happened, at some point. ‘At least that’s honest. That’s new, for us.’</p><p>‘It’s new for me in general,’ says Enjolras dryly.</p><p>Grantaire smirks, a little. ‘I missed you, Apollo.’</p><p>‘Enjolras,’ says Enjolras, and then, when Grantaire looks confused, he repeats, ‘Jean Enjolras. It’s my real name. I don’t use Jean, though - there are too many of us.’</p><p>‘You’re right about that,’ says Grantaire, looking slightly dazed. ‘Enjolras, as in-’</p><p>‘The asshole ex-president, yes.’</p><p>‘Holy shit.’</p><p>‘Yes. But can we please not talk about my father right now?’ says Enjolras. ‘I want to kiss you.’</p><p>‘Okay,’ says Grantaire with a small laugh, and leans in and kisses him.</p><p>Grantaire is different to anyone he’s ever kissed, not shy but gentle, and as Enjolras kisses him back, he decides he likes it. A lot. Grantaire’s mouth opens a little under his, and Enjolras licks inside as Grantaire slides off his chair to join him on the bed. Enjolras shivers, tilting his neck up for Grantaire to trail his lips over the corner of Enjolras’s mouth and onto his jaw.</p><p>‘You can’t just kiss me like that every time you don’t want to talk about something,’ Grantaire murmurs into his skin.</p><p>‘I know,’ Enjolras says honestly. ‘But can I kiss you now?’</p><p>Grantaire laughs, and lets him.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>In the days after Enjolras is released from custody, he receives a guarantee of full immunity from Valjean (in return for testimony, both on his own experiences and the various crimes committed by his targets). Grantaire receives a suspension from his job, also from Valjean.</p><p>‘This is <em> so </em>unfair,’ he complains. ‘Eponine’s the one who let me in to see you. She’s at least as guilty of disobeying orders as I am.’</p><p>‘Valjean’s obviously doing you a favour,’ says Musichetta from behind him, rolling her eyes. They’re sitting at a window table at <em> Le Musain </em> , and Enjolras is tilting his cup around his hands, watching the dregs of his triple espresso swirl around at the bottom. ‘Plus, he didn’t walk in on <em> Eponine </em>making out with a detainee in a hospital bed, so he’s probably still fine with looking her in the eyes. Shut up and enjoy your vacation with your boyfriend.’</p><p>They visit Bahorel in his shop and Enjolras points out that Grantaire still hasn’t shown him his tattoos, so they go to the back room and Grantaire pulls off his shirt and tells Enjolras about each of them - a Baudelaire quote over his shoulder blade, a Basquiat face on his ribcage, a bird Enjolras doesn’t recognise that claws over his hip. There's an arrow on his ankle, the time he’d tried to tattoo himself drunk, and its curved line gets thinner and thinner across his skin like some bizarre comet. Enjolras traces all the drawings with his lips, and it ends up in them making out but goes no further, because Grantaire is being remarkably careful with him. It’s sweeter than Enjolras has the words for.</p><p>They still don't trust each other, maybe. But they're learning.</p><p>They walk down to the Seine at sunset, which Grantaire derides as horribly cliché, but its beautiful with the golden light fading to blue over the water. They visit several small art galleries Enjolras has never even heard of, which Grantaire insists are full of the work of the best up and coming artists in the city. Enjolras likes a lot of the work there, but not as much as he likes any of Grantaire’s portraits.</p><p>‘Paint me,’ Enjolras says to him one rainy afternoon, only realising how imperious it probably sounds after he’s said it.</p><p>Grantaire laughs. ‘Like one of my French girls?’</p><p>Enjolras blinks at him quizzically, and that’s why they end up watching <em> Titanic, </em>curled on the sofa in Grantaire’s apartment at 3am in the morning.</p><p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac both come to visit them for lunch, and Combeferre is going back to Britain soon, but Courfeyrac says he’s considering hanging around in Paris. Enjolras feels a type of happiness at that which he doesn’t really know how to describe: it’s cautious, but it’s definitely good.</p><p>Enjolras hears that du Theil has been taken in for questioning over illegal tax practices. Eponine drops in to visit them after a couple of weeks, too, to inform them that she’s leaving France for a while as part of the task force tracking Thénardier down. Enjolras learns that Valjean suspects he’s fled to Canada.</p><p>‘Do you want to see him?’ Grantaire asks, late one night as they lie in bed, and Enjolras bites at his lip in the dark. ‘Not now. At some point, if they find him, but I think Eponine has more to say to him than I do.’</p><p>‘I think she has a lot,’ Grantaire agrees.</p><p>Mostly, things are good. Enjolras starts looking into online classes, because he’d been well ahead of the average in his grade at school, but he never came close to graduating, due to the circumstances. He enrolls for literature and philosophy; considers trying a class in politics for some time, too. The subject interests him, but it's rather inextricably connected to the memory of his father.</p><p>‘Fuck him,’ Grantaire says, as they wander back from the supermarket together towards the flat, arms laden with groceries. ‘But if you’re going to think about him too much if you take the class, don’t go for it now. There’s no point hurting yourself like that. You’ve got a lifetime to come back to it.’</p><p>‘R,’ says Enjolras (Enjolras, not Gabriel, or Julien, or Lucien). They're about to take the turn off the Rue Plumet. He drops the bag in his left hand onto the street, where it lands with a thud. Grantaire turns and looks at him, and his eyes are less surprised than they should be: more amused, if anything.</p><p><em> 'We </em> have a lifetime,' Enjolras tells him, and in the middle of the street, he lifts his hand to cup Grantaire's cheek, and kisses him. He tastes almost impossibly sweet.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tumblr @rupikaurs if you want to see more of my work! thank you for reading &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>